by Brian Cotton
***
Paxton fought through the angry crowd as he headed for the exit. This Kaspar was about as much as he expected. He never gave up, he stood up to his enemy, despite being undersized and outmatched. One thing did bother him, though. When his mark exploded, something was said to him. Whatever that something was, it unleashed a demon inside. What was said? Could it be used during their recruitment of him? Or, would it be a deterrent, a signal to stay the hell away? He would soon find out.
Once outside, he reached down and grabbed a black mobile phone. The blue indigo screen came up upon opening. Paxton touched the address book, then the number two. It auto dialed a number. It rang three times.
“This is Robert,” a light voice said.
“Clarke, Paxton.”
“How did it go?”
“Not entirely sure, yet.”
“So, what happened?”
“Our mark really went to town on his opponent; he had a look in his eyes, like he would have beaten the life out of the man if the official didn’t break it up.”
“He won, then?” Clarke asked.
“Not exactly. He got disqualified.”
“Should we continue? I mean, is a head case like that worth the trouble?”
“I think we should,” Paxton replied. “He’s got an anger problem from what I could see. We can use that.”
Paxton pressed END on the phone and felt a craving for another cigarette. He darted his way to a darkened alley and retrieved his smokes. He lit up, took a puff, and blew out the smoke. All the while the wheels in his head started to turn. Could this Kaspar fellow really cut it as a soldier in this war? The team would have to be certain that he had no connections whatsoever with the USR. The ally that led him to Kaspar seemed to think that an impossibility, but there would be no room for mistakes. After verification that he was clean, they would move in.
The cigarette depleted, Paxton threw the used butt onto the pavement and put it out with his boot. One question rang through his head as he walked back to his van.
How could he convince this kid to join?
